


"Snow Day"

by fannishliss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Porn Battle, Pregnancy, Schmoop, Snowed In, Threesome - F/M/M, but not as a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's reprieve, John and Mary realize they need to be more open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Snow Day"

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to assume this is mid-January, since Sherlock killed Magnussen on Christmas day, and he was probably free again by New Year’s.  Mary is only two weeks’ more pregnant now that she was at Christmas when we saw her last.

title: "Snow Day"  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)**fannishliss**  
pairing: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes  
fandom: BBC Sherlock  
rating: Adult  
length: 5500 words

summary: After Sherlock's reprieve, John and Mary realize they need to be more open.

For Porn Battle XV the Ides of Porn: John Watson/Mary Watson/Sherlock Holmes,  
middle, whole, marriage, together, polyamory, baby, dream, secrets, watching, giggles, truth, ace/demi Sherlock, snow day, tipsy, Christmas, family, robe, case, vows, big bed, need, domesticity, tea, safe, accept, laugh, openness, comfort, sharing --- reading that prompt list, it's clear that this is a big bundle of OT3 schmoop.  Hope you enjoy it this Valentine's Day!

  
\------

 

John Watson/Mary Watson/Sherlock Holmes,  
middle, whole, marriage, together, polyamory, baby, dream, secrets, watching, giggles, truth, ace/demi Sherlock, snow day, tipsy, Christmas, family, robe, case, vows, big bed, need, domesticity, tea, safe, accept, laugh, openness, comfort, sharing

Note: I’m going to assume this is mid-January, since Sherlock killed Magnussen on Christmas day, and he was probably free again by New Year’s.  Mary is only two weeks’ more pregnant now that she was at Christmas when we saw her last.

 

Snow Day

“Please don’t go,” Mary said, imploring him with big eyes.

Sherlock, still, could hardly see the killer in her. She'd been so easy to deduce, her love for John clear in every motive.  Then she'd been exposed as an international assassin.  He'd ignored the thumb drive, too cross with himself at incorrectly deducing her trustworthiness to fall back on the crutch of a clutch of damning documents.

Now here he stood, poised in the door of the flat she shared with John, ready to head off into the snowy night, leaving the husband and wife to enjoy the chilled, quiet night, the blanket of snow falling over London, while he set off to mar the white sidewalks with his rapid stride.

“I should go,” he said. “The case.”

“The case is cold,” Mary said, under her breath.  “Don’t go.  John misses you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The case was in fact red hot, but they were missing vital data.  This return of Moriarty — which so far hadn’t manifested beyond the televised appearance — seemed so very unlikely.  Sherlock had gone over and over the Moriarty files with Mycroft — the linkages and contacts and syndicates and loose ties — anyone who had any suspected ties to Moriarty — and none of it had panned out.

Sherlock would have suspected Mycroft, but he seemed to be totally innocent.  He'd had a terrible dream that Richard Brook had in fact been an actor, and Mycroft had held the wires of a Moriarty marionette, dancing him across the map of Europe.  Sherlock had awakened with a gasp, unable to shake the conviction that his dream didn’t reflect some horrifying aspect of reality.

Sherlock could only deduce a third party, but who?  Magnussen was definitely dead, so that ruled out the world’s foremost blackmailer.    Pulling the trigger in Magnussen’s face had almost made his two years’ hell worth it — the time he’d spent becoming a killer, cracking Moriarty’s associates, one by one — trapping those he could, killing those he couldn’t, and extracting the truth from those who had information he needed.  John apparently couldn’t see the ways he’d changed while he’d been gone.  John, too hurt by Sherlock’s game, hadn’t really put it all together:  Sherlock’s mania, his relapses, his willingness to give John up to a more domestic happiness than Sherlock had ever respected.

“Don’t go,” Mary repeated. Sherlock stared into those eyes, full of love for John, somehow less a killer’s eyes than his.  She had killed again and again, until the only person left to wipe off the earth was herself, and she did it, resurrecting herself from the grave of an infant, selecting John Watson, detective’s stalwart associate, for her lifemate, working her way in, being everything he needed, being more than he suspected, incorporating Sherlock’s spectre, bringing John back to life.  He owed her, John’s life, his own, their baby’s … he owed her as much as John did.

He shrugged back out of his coat.

“Trust me,” Mary said, concern veiling the steel of her resolution.

He nodded, returned to the sofa. She vanished into the kitchen just as John reappeared, wet-headed, in his thick gray terrycloth robe.

“I thought you had gone,” John said.  Sherlock noted his blush.

“The snow,” Sherlock intoned, glancing toward the kitchen.

John collapsed back into his chair.  Sherlock wasn’t used to John having a chair that wasn’t the chair at 221B.  But it clearly was John’s chair, and he was in it, while Sherlock sat stiffly on a sofa that patently wasn’t his.

“I wish I could be more help with the case,” John said.

“Tedious,” Sherlock said.  “Boring.  Files and files and Mycroft and files. It makes me want to hang myself.”

John’s eyes widened, then closed. “Don’t joke, Sherlock.  Treason isn’t a capital offense — but in your case it may as well have been.”

John knew all about Eastern Europe.  Mary must’ve enlightened him at some point after the reprieve.

“I’d do it again,” Sherlock blurted.

John stared.

Sherlock felt the secrets bubbling up out of him.  After all these months, he could no longer keep them in.

“Magnussen wasn’t the first.  Man I’ve killed. In cold blood,” Sherlock said.  “I could tell you a number, but it would only be technically accurate, as I ruined the lives of many more in my months away.”

“My god, Sherlock,” John said.  “I don’t — You don’t need —“

“Nothing meant more to me — nothing, John!  — than your happiness, your safety, your wellbeing.  It was all worth it.  I’d do it again.”  Sherlock’s heart thudded in his chest as he confessed his crimes.  He felt a little dizzy, like the world was rearranging itself.  Maybe it was.

John closed his eyes.  “Okay.  Okay.  I accept that, because I feel the same way about you.  If I’d had an opportunity to blow Moriarty away, I wouldn’t have hesitated.  But I’m so sorry you had to go through all that alone.  In the army, we had training. We had the corps, the mission.  You — out in the cold, dangling by a thread.  I can’t believe Mycroft put you through it, that he let you go through with it, that he was going to send you back—“   John’s voice broke.

“Mycroft hoped to find a way out. Some unidentifiable body, approximate to me - he would have managed it.”

John’s jaw tightened.  “If you’re asking me to be grateful to Mycroft, don’t, because I can’t be and I never will be.”

“Understood, John,” Sherlock smiled.

John smiled back, and then they were laughing.

“That great toff, I’d like to punch him so hard,” John giggled.

“I’d like that too!” Sherlock said, and when Mary came back she laughed as well.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Mycroft’s face!” John said.

“John punching it!” Sherlock added.

“Yes, I see,” Mary laughed, but not quite as hard as they did.

The giggles trickled off, erupting a little every time John and Sherlock’s eyes met across the room.

Mary had come back from the kitchen with several glasses and a bottle of Scotch.

“I can’t drink it, but you can,” she said, and poured each of them a finger, adding a drop of water from a glass she kept for herself.  She settled on the couch next to Sherlock.

“Thank you, Mary,” Sherlock said.  He’d bought the Scotch himself as a present to John, eighteen-year-old Laphroaig.   John had been pleased and Sherlock was glad that John appreciated the complicated, peaty flavors.

“To John and Mary,” Sherlock said, and drank.

“To Sherlock, the best friend a man ever had,” John said, emotionally.

“To John and Sherlock, the best husband and husband’s best friend a preggers lady could wish for,” Mary said, grinning significantly at both of them.

The Laphroaig breathed in their mouths, emitting the florals as they savored it.

“Let me just smell it,” Mary said, putting her nose over John’s glass.  “Wow.”

“I’ll buy you another when the baby comes,” Sherlock promised.

They lapsed into silence.  Laphroaig was too good of a whisky to drink fast, but it was powerful, and Sherlock, who wasn’t a big drinker and hadn’t eaten, felt a little tipsy before he’d had more than a few swallows.

“Good stuff,” John said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “My father’s favorite.”

John smiled.  “You never used to speak of them.  I’m glad that’s changed.”

“They’re lovely,” Mary said.

“They expect so much,” Sherlock blurted.

“That’s what good parents do,” Mary said.  John and Sherlock looked at her.

“Is that how yours were?” John asked gently.

Mary lowered her gaze, shaking her head.

“Mine neither,” John said.

“I was the lucky one, in so many ways,” Sherlock intoned drily.  “The two of you will be the best of parents.  I will see to it.”

“Of all the cheek,” John laughed.

“We have a list of your vows, you know,” Mary said, laughing.  “We intend to hold you to them.”

“I intend to keep them,” Sherlock said, solemnly.

“Rubbish!” John accused.

“What?” Sherlock said.

“John!” Mary admonished.

“He promised to always be there. Then he shot Magnussen.  How was that supposed to work?”

Sherlock looked away from John, unable to answer.

“Always,” John pointed at Sherlock.  “Always be there.  Never, never not be there again.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said.

Mary stared at John, and then at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, would you excuse us for a moment?” Mary said, standing.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, also standing.  Despite his origins not being as posh as John had always imagined, he’d been well-trained, however hard he tried to ignore it.

John followed Mary into the kitchen, smiling.

“John,” Mary said.  “Don’t get upset.”

“I always get upset,” John laughed.

“It’s about Sherlock,” Mary said.

“Of course it is, it’s always about Sherlock,” John laughed.

“I think he loves you,” Mary said.

“Um,” John said, his laughter fading.

“And I think you love him too. I’ve always thought so. I just, this whole thing, I don’t want to lose him — I don’t want you to lose him.”

“Mary, I’m not gay,” John protested.

“I’m not saying you are,” Mary said.  “I’m not saying this is sexual. Except I think, it is, just a little… I just want to be a little more honest, a little more open, that’s all.  Can you — can you go along with me on this?”

“What am I going along with?” John asked.

“Follow my lead,” Mary asked.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with not knowing the endgame,” John said.

“There is no endgame,” Mary said.  “This is about Sherlock.  You love him, he loves you.”

“But — you’re my wife.”

Mary looked up at John with all her honesty in her eyes.  “I am so grateful for that.  Truly.  That’s why I need to let Sherlock in.”

“Let him in? Into — into what?”

“Into our marriage.”

“Mary, darling, Sherlock isn’t — he won’t — he’s married to his work,” John tried to explain.  “Ask Janine.”

“You are his work, John, and for your information I already asked Janine. And Molly.  Did you know he talks to you when you’re not there?”

“Yes,” John admitted.

“In bed?” Mary pointed out.

“Oh, my god,” John said. “What does he say?”

“Same sorts of things he always says, according to Janine— just addressed to John.”

“Oh, my god,” John laughed.

“Back to the point.  I want to be more open with Sherlock.  I heard what he was telling you earlier.  I think he really needs you, more than he’s letting on.  I’m determined we don’t let him down— not this time.”

John kissed Mary gently.  “You’re a treasure. I trust you. I still think you won’t get anywhere with Sherlock, but by all means, if it’s this important to you—“

“To me, to you, to him — to all of us,” she tried to explain.

“Lay on,” John said, ushering Mary back into the living room.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his fingers steepled.  They waited a few more minutes before he opened them.

“Just tidying the mind palace,” he said.  “To give you some privacy — though I know it concerns me, and your marriage, and my place in your lives.”

“Amazing,” John breathed.

“Why else would you and Mary leave the room?”  Sherlock said. “Really, John, painfully obvious, even for you.”

“Cheers, mate,” John said, rolling his eyes.

“We wanted to talk about your feelings.  For John.” Mary began.

“Haven’t I made myself perfectly clear?” Sherlock asked acerbically.

John raised his eyebrows at Mary.  She plowed on.

“I just think,” she floundered, then tried again. “I think, I think — I think the two of you shaking hands on that tarmac was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, I never want to see a thing like that again!” she burst out.

“What?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“John, stand up.  Sherlock, up.  Now hug,”  Mary ordered, blushing furiously.

“Mary, you can’t just order two grown men to hug,” John protested, also blushing.

“Lestrade hugged me,” Sherlock noted.  “When I returned.”

“He’s a hugger,” John muttered.  “It figures.”

“Hug!” Mary shouted, waving her hands at them.

John shuffled over to Sherlock.  At five feet six, to Sherlock’s six one, John was really quite a bit shorter than his friend.  The hug was not on an even footing.  Still, John had agreed to let Mary take the lead.  He leaned in, tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin, and hugged his friend.

Hesitantly, Sherlock’s arms came up, and settled around John.  “I’d do it again,” he whispered.  “All of it.”

“I don’t want that,” John whispered back, soothing Sherlock’s back with his hands.  “I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself, for me, for us.  I want you here.  I need you here.”

“He does, Sherlock,” Mary said.  “He needs you so much.”

“When you were gone, I was devastated.  I could hardly — anything.  I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t work.  Oh my god, I hated you, I hated you for jumping, for leaving me like that.” John’s hands grabbed onto Sherlock’s jacket, his arms tightening around his friend.  “Don’t you ever, ever do that again, do you hear me?”

“I promised to be there,” Sherlock whispered.  “And then I broke my promise.”

“We forgive you,” Mary said.  “Just as you’ve forgiven me.”

John laughed into Sherlock’s chest. “A sociopathic best friend, and — and someone deadly for a wife. I know how to pick them.”

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock muttered.

“Thank God,” Mary added.

“With you two tag teaming me, what hope do I have?” John wondered.

Mary stood up and joined them in the hug.  “Would you like us to tag team you, Mr Watson, is that what you’re trying to tell us?”

“Mary,” Sherlock said, but couldn't go on. 

“I can't read your mind, Sherlock,” Mary said.  “Explain.  And please, be honest.”

The three of them stood there, swaying in the hug.  It was warm, and honest, and comfortable, snow falling outside, locking out the rest of the world.  Moriarty loomed, but that threat, whatever it meant, would have to wait.  Now, it seemed their lives going forward hinged on this cusp.  They wanted it, but what it was they wanted, was still to be explored.

“Tell us about Janine,” John said. “I thought I’d burst from curiosity.”

“She said you were magnificent,” Mary added.

“Do tell!” John urged.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “All for the case. I know how to pretend.  It’s not — it’s not what I would have preferred —“

“But did you enjoy it — being with a woman?” Mary asked.

“I wasn’t — it wasn’t me with Janine.  The case,” Sherlock entreated.

“Could you, though? You?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.  “I think so.  If—“

“If it were John,” Mary whispered.

They held each other, the three of them, the snow softly falling across London. The cold, shushing silence made room for them to speak.

“If it were Mary,” John whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, at last.

John felt a rush of heat he couldn’t describe. Mary’s hand was hot in the middle of his back where she held him.  Sherlock’s arms were heavy and safe around his shoulders.  Sherlock’s heart, the one he was not supposed to have, was pounding against John’s cheek — the heart Mary had spared with her deadly, merciful aim.

“Sherlock,” John said, eyes tightly closed.  “I love you, you know that.”

Silence.

“This might take him some time,” John warned Mary.

It was only a minute or two until Sherlock spoke. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” John said.  “I, John Hamish Watson, love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, so much.”

“I love you, too,” Mary added.  “For what it’s worth.”

A little more silence stretched out.  Mary and John swayed together, Sherlock clasped inside their love, and they waited while snow kept falling.

“There are limits,” Sherlock said at last.  “Aren’t there?”

“Not necessarily,” Mary answered.

“Not necessarily,” John agreed.

“We can decide for ourselves,” Mary said. “Love isn’t a fossil fuel, we’re not going to run out. If we love you, why can’t we just admit it?”

“But why?” Sherlock said. “I’m  — I’m everything I said in my speech. No one could love me.”

“Jesus,” John said, and his arms tightened hard.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mary said.  “We don’t love you despite who you are, we love you because of who you are.  Don’t you know that?”

“Say it again,” Sherlock whispered. He was shaking just a little.

“We love you.  I,” John said, “love you. I think I always have, I just didn’t put it like that cause I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“I — I want, I want to hear it,” Sherlock said.

“He loves you,” Mary said, “and so do I. But what about you, how do you feel?”

“I have no basis for comparison,” Sherlock said.  “I’ve given up my life for John, once, twice, thirty-seven times. Is that love?”

“I think it is,” John said, and he shivered, really allowing himself to acknowledge all Sherlock had given for him. That number meant something real to Sherlock, no exaggeration or random guess. John tried to look past his own hurt and feelings of betrayal to the enormous sacrifices his friend had unselfishly made for him.

“But this,” Mary said.  “Touching, closeness — is this something you need? Something you’d like to be part of?”

“I’ve never wanted this—“ Sherlock said. “But it feels so good, to know you love me, to feel your arms around me, to be a part of it—“

“Oh, my god, Sherlock,” John said.  “I’ll never let you go.”

“Can we take this to the bedroom?” Mary said.

“Why?” Sherlock said.

John laughed, but Mary answered.

“This feels good to you because you love us.  More might feel better.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock answered, a little doubtfully.

“Whatever you want,” John said.

“But you’re not gay,” Sherlock said.

“Love is more important than labels,” Mary said.  “Let’s just see, see what happens. I just want you to know, there aren’t any limits, unless we set them for ourselves. Besides, I know you’re not saying my maid of honor is hotter than me.”

Sherlock drew back.  “Janine conforms to standards of beauty that mean nothing to me,” Sherlock said.  “You — you are Mary.”

“And she’s beautiful,” John said.

“Good save, Mr Watson,” Mary laughed.

They laughed their way to the bedroom.

“Stay with us tonight,” Mary said.  “We don’t have to do anything.  I just, I couldn’t let you go again.  Not after, the plane—“

John closed his eyes and shuddered, horrified at what he’d almost lost.

“I usually sleep in the nude,” Sherlock said.

“That’s fine with me,” Mary said, looking happy.

“Uh,” John said.

“John, tell Sherlock to take off his clothes,” Mary stage whispered.

“Sherlock, mate, if you want — you can — feel free,” John muttered.

Sherlock shed his jacket gracefully and handed it to Mary, who found a hanger for it in the closet.  His shirt was dark blue silk, tight, thick luxurious cloth.  Regardless of what John thought of Mycroft, the elder Holmes kept his little brother well in kit.

“May I?” Mary asked.

Sherlock swallowed.  “Of course.”

Nudity was a game Sherlock played with the world.  He’d gone all the way to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, but normally he costumed himself in beautiful tailored clothes.  It was a kind of protective coloration, John thought.  Watching Mary undo those buttons, revealing Sherlock’s pale as marble skin, heat rose up in John that he hadn’t expected.

Sherlock’s shirt was undone, hanging open, the tails hanging free of his trousers.    “Now you do me,” Mary said.

She was wearing a jumper and elasticated maternity bottoms. 

Sherlock looked nervously at John, who nodded.  “Go on,” he said.

Sherlock pulled the jumper slowly up over Mary’s head.  She was seven months pregnant, her belly round and full, her breasts grown bigger.  John had never seen a woman so beautiful.  Her face glowed with health, her hair thick and glossy; her roots were growing out since she wasn’t supposed to bleach them.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed.  “She’s right there, right in there.”

The baby had quickened several months ago. John could feel her kicking him every night when Mary spooned him in her sleep.

“Can I  — May I?” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” Mary smiled.

Sherlock hastily seated Mary on the bed, and knelt on the floor at her feet, laying the side of his face against her belly, listening intently.  Suddenly he jerked away.

“Oh!  She — she kicked me!”

“She knows you’re there, she can feel the heat.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Sherlock!” John said.  He’d seen his friend shamming so many times, he’d never thought he'd see him cry for real.

Sherlock lay his head gently back on Mary’s tummy, tears running down his face.  Mary carded through his hair, smiling at him.  “Touch if you want,” she said.  “Use your hands.”

Sherlock’s hands came up onto Mary’s belly, and John could see a reverence in Sherlock that he’d never seen.  He immediately began to reconsider the names he’d like for the baby.

“She’s in there.  She knows I’m here,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” Mary said.

“And when she’s born, I’ll be here.  She’ll know me.  She’ll — she’ll trust me,” he said.

“Yes,” John said.  “She’ll love you, just as much as we do.”

Sherlock stood up and darted from the room.

“Quick, John, don’t let him leave,” Mary said.

John ran after Sherlock and caught him before he reached the door.

“Don’t run,” John said.  “You promised.  Don’t run now.”

Sherlock froze.  “John — it’s too much.”

“You promised you’d be there for all three of us,” John reminded him seriously.

“But I didn’t — I didn’t know—“ Sherlock said. “She’s real, she’s really in there.”

John nodded, with a rueful smile.  “I know, mate.  It’s too much. Everyone feels that way. But it’s how the human race keeps going.”

“I never prepared myself for this,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “I never needed to.”

“You need to,” John said, suddenly realizing how true it was. “I need you, Sherlock.  I need you to be part of this — my life, my life with Mary, my daughter’s life.  We need you, so much.  We love you.”

“But why?” Sherlock demanded, anguished.  “This is no crime scene, John.  I’ve got nothing to offer, to you or Mary, much less to your child.  I’ll watch, I’ll observe, I’ll do all I can to protect you — but —“

“That’s so not what I mean,” John said.  “I don’t need a bodyguard. I’m quite capable of protecting my own family by myself. It’s you we need, you we want, you —“

John had no more words.  He’d used them all up.  He reached out for Sherlock, grabbed him by the open shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm.  He tasted smoky with Laphroiag, just like John.  He tasted a little salty, like tears.

John kissed Sherlock, like he’d kissed so many women, caressing Sherlock’s lips with his own. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more, just letting Sherlock feel what he felt.  He threaded his fingers up into Sherlock’s curls, man’s hair, different from a woman’s.  He caressed Sherlock’s scalp with his fingers, and Sherlock moaned.

John pulled back.  “Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock looked dazed, breathing a little hard.  “Kissing. I like it.  Lying down — with you — with Mary — I want that.”

“I want that too,” John said, and John took Sherlock's hand, and led him back to Mary.

She’d changed into her nightgown — a soft loose cotton thing — and was waiting for them under the covers.

“The snow makes everything bright,” she said. “Turn off the lights and lie down with me.”

John went back out into the flat, turning off lights, making sure everything was locked.  When he got back, the room was darkened but glowing with reflected light from the snowy world outside.    Sherlock’s shirt and trousers lay where he'd dropped them. John shrugged off his robe and snuggled in.

Sherlock was in the middle of the bed.  Mary, it seemed, had put him there. Mary liked a comfortable amount of room in bed and they'd bought the biggest bed they could find.

Sherlock was on his side, facing John, and Mary was spooned up behind him.

Sherlock had a big smile on his face, the kind John most liked to see.

"She'll fall asleep soon," John said.

"Amazing," Sherlock said.  "I never thought I'd enjoy being kicked in the kidneys."

"Enjoy," John said drily.  Mary laughed.

"Too bad she can't dance on someone's bladder besides mine," Mary said.

They lay there quietly for a while, just being together, thinking about the little stranger inside Mary's belly.  Finally she quieted down; Sherlock didn't feel any more kicks and Mary pronounced that she was asleep.

John was used to his wife sleeping in his arms, but instead there lay his tall, skinny former flatmate.

"You two were kissing," Mary said.

"Yes," John said.

"I'm not a complete stranger to kissing," Sherlock groused.

"Janine said you were lovely," Mary pointed out.

"Janine, Janine!" Sherlock exclaimed.  "A cottage in Sussex wasn't enough, she had to put these ideas in your head!"

"What ideas?" John said.  "I just want to know what went on between you two."

"It's not that difficult to bring a woman to orgasm, John, as you should know," Sherlock said archly.

"I just thought -- it wasn't your area," John said.

"Not especially," Sherlock said.

"Yet, here you are," John pointed out.

"Let's speak plainly," Mary said.  "Are you sexually attracted to John?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, reluctantly.

"And to Mary?"  John said.

"She's quite compelling," Sherlock admitted.

"I'll take it," Mary said, with a chuckle.

"Here's what I'd like," John said suddenly, biting the bullet.  "I'd like to see you bring Mary off.  It's not hard; she's always ready to go these days."

If Sherlock could do this, then it would be real. If John could let him touch Mary, if Mary could enjoy his touch, if Sherlock enjoyed it, it would all be real.  Then it might work.  If it didn't work, then nothing between John and Sherlock would be broken.  Mary was a safe zone.

Sherlock seemed to grasp the sense of it right away.  Mary, of course, was enthusiastic.

"Sherlock, darling, move behind me, okay?"

Sherlock, surprisingly, did as he was bid, gracefully climbing over Mary to lie on her other side, so that she was now facing John.

Sherlock embraced her from behind, stroking her tummy, his hand moving lower.  John leaned in and kissed her mouth just as Sherlock found his target. Mary moaned and John swallowed it down.  He was hard, so near his best friend's hand.  It was strange, but it wasn't bad.  It seemed a little surreal, but also, inevitable, as though somehow they had always been headed toward this moment.

Mary moaned again as Sherlock touched her.

"That's it, Mary," he said.  His low, dark voice sounded like liquid sin in John's ears, just like he'd always known it would.  "Feel, just feel.  How lovely you are beneath my fingers, I can feel how responsive you are."

John was rock hard now.  He wasn't sure if he should touch himself, or reach out for Mary's hand, or save himself for round two for Mary.

"John," Sherlock said.  His deep voice sent a shiver of pleasure down John's spine.  "Touch yourself.  Mary, touch him too."

John reached down and took himself in hand.  It was amazing, watching Mary's pleasure on her face, knowing Sherlock's hand was there between her legs, beneath the covers, knowing Sherlock would be watching his face over Mary's shoulder.  Mary touched him lightly, lovingly, and she pulled him back  in for a kiss.

John kissed his wife, thrusting into his own hand, while Sherlock brought her off.  Mary gave a little cry -- a sound John loved to hear -- and her hand as she touched John fluttered with her pleasure.

"Mmm," John moaned.  It was not quite enough -- he wanted more.

"Sherlock, please get back over here,"  he said.

Sherlock had never been so biddable.  He resumed his place in the middle, with Mary spooning him from behind.

"Is it all right if I kiss you again, like this -- if I touch you-- " John asked.

"John, don't be so dull -- just do it!" Sherlock griped.

This was the man he knew so well.

Laughing, John moved in.  Sherlock's lips already seemed so familiar.  Sherlock's lean body, his taut abs and flat chest were so different, and yet so lovely, John thought.  And then Sherlock slotted his leg between John's, and thrust against him, and wrapped his long fingers around them both.

"Oh, god, yes!" John gasped out, and he came so hard he saw stars.

Sherlock groaned John's name and came all over John's belly.

"Sherlock," John said, and kissed him and kissed him, and Sherlock kissed back, very sweetly.

"That was perfect," Mary murmured happily.

"Agreed," Sherlock said.

John just laughed, and got some tissues from the nightstand and wiped himself off.

"John, roll over, I want to cuddle your back," Sherlock demanded.

John had never expected such a thing, but it turned out he didn't mind at all.  He rolled to his side, and the three of them slept, and the snow continued falling through the morning, till the sun came out bright over the clean white City.


End file.
